When I left your house, I was happy. I was fucking happy. This should have set off warning bells, but it didn’t. I went home and I talked to my friends about you and I smiled like an idiot and gushed like a teenager.

I switched medications because I wanted to try having a wider range of emotions: I was getting tired of having only numb and number. Although I am coping better since starting this medication, I don’t have that overly medicated zombie-esque façade to which I become accustomed. Quite often it would go through my mind that perhaps this medication was not working.

Against my better judgment, I’ve let someone in. I have talked about my kids; I’ve told stories and shown pictures. I’ve used their names instead of calling them “the big one” and “the little one.” I’ve talked about my dad, my ex, and yeah…even my emotions. I’ve done it without realizing, and I keep doing it. As much as I know I should stop, I don’t. I actually want to let this person in. I want them to know these things about me. I want to know things about them.

These are things my ex-husband said to me before I left. These were all said in one day, in less than 12 hours. This is emotional abuse. This right here. I’m done pretending it isn’t. I’m done pretending that I’m not a victim. I am. I don’t want to be. I don’t want to admit that I am. I don’t want to admit that I let myself get this deep. I don’t want to admit that I let someone have so much control over me.

Case in point. I met a guy on Tinder. We talked on the app for a few days, and then exchanged phone numbers. Texted back and forth. Tried to make plans for a weekend, but I had my kids and the only window of time I had didn’t work for him. So we texted for another week or so, and then made plans for a Friday night that I didn’t have my kids.